Historical Romance – The Best Of The Year. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.
Would she know something of this marriage tangle he’d been given to unravel?
‘How long?’ he asked, cutting off the Prince in mid-sentence. ‘How long have they been together?’
Edward shrugged. ‘At least fifteen years. Her mother served Joan before her.’
‘So when Joan was still married to Salisbury?’
That brought a frown. The Prince did not care to be reminded that he would be the third man to share his wife’s marital bed. ‘It is of no importance to your duty to take her there and back.’
No, he thought, but it was curious. It was a long, long time. ‘And her father?’
‘Died with honour in France. But why do you ask? These questions will not get you to Canterbury and back any faster.’
And that, of course, was all that concerned the Prince.
Nicholas bowed and left the room. If Anne had been with her lady so long, she had been there not only for their wedding, but also when Holland had appeared to reclaim his wife.
Strange, that Anne had never mentioned that.
Nicholas watched, wary, as Anne appeared promptly the next morning, garbed and prepared for travel. Did he see a sly glance? A wistful sigh? Any sign that she expected to return from this journey with a husband instead of a cure?
‘You understand,’ he began, in his sternest tone, ‘that we do not have time for you to walk to Canterbury.’
Cruel words. Chosen to keep her safely distant.
That hard edge in her eyes again. ‘I am lame. I am not an idiot.’
Hardly words to entice a man’s sensual imaginings.
He gritted his teeth. She had that habit. Each time a wave of guilt seemed about to crash over him, she would say something pointed and sharp enough to prick him with anger instead of pity.
For that, he was thankful. It kept him from thinking of her in other ways.
‘Nor,’ he continued, ‘have we time for you to make your will, or give away your worldly goods, or be blessed at mass, or any of the rest of it.’
A proper pilgrimage was near as ritualised as the mass or the stag hunt. There was a long list of things God demanded before he would bestow his mercy.
‘If you are warning me not to blame you if the saint does not cure me, do not worry. My prayers, and my mother’s, have been ignored up to this time. I don’t think one more blessing will make a difference to St Thomas one way or another.’
‘Then why go at all?’
She made no quick retort this time and, in the silence, his suspicions resurfaced. Was there something more to this journey than she had said?
Finally, she blinked, as if waking from a distant vision. ‘I have not been away from Lady Joan in more than fifteen years.’
A startling thought. The royal household was constantly on the move. By the time he was ready to return from Canterbury, the King would have moved on to Clarendon or Brockenhurst or Carisbrooke. Individual members of the household might stay behind or go before. For Anne to have never been separated from her lady in so long was more than unusual.
He could not imagine that kind of constancy. But her affliction, of course, made any travel monumental, best undertaken with a cart to move her. Travelling with Lady Joan, they could ride together in safety and comfort.
For her to come on this journey, on horseback, accompanied by only a few knights and squires and a maid, must take more courage than he had appreciated. ‘Will you miss her?’
She smiled. ‘I’ll have time to discover that, won’t I?’
And he saw no fear in her eyes. Only a yearning that rekindled the twinge of weakness he had felt in his chest more than once when he looked at her.
He struggled to reclaim his stern face, searched for curt words.
Oh, a quick kiss with a smiling maiden was a harmless diversion when he was stuck in the New Forest for three days. They had shared some barbed words and some laughter, but he had always known he would move on.
Yet now, when he was ready to leave, here she was. And here she would be, day after day, on the road beside him.
And what was worse, was that he was not certain he minded.
* * *
Anne had journeyed on horseback before, but never for so long a ride, day after day. Roads were rutted, carts slow and uncomfortable, and sometimes, she and her lady had been carried in the comfort of a litter, cushioned with pillows and shielded from wind and sun.
There would be no such respite now.
Simply to stay on the horse took all her strength. Her right foot could not rest in the stirrup, so she clenched her thighs, as tightly as she could, hoping with every mile that she would not slide off and be trampled. The horse, sensing her tension, seemed to fight her, making every step a struggle.
By afternoon, her muscles shook with pain.
Yet she felt happy enough to sing.
Though she had imagined, in the moments before sleep, journeying to the far corners of the world, seeing sights too strange to be imagined, she knew it to be a dream. Only in the circle of her lady’s protection could she live safely. In lucid, waking moments, she could not conceive of leaving Lady Joan’s side.
Yet here she was, on a lovely summer day, so far away she could not hear or see or even be summoned by the Countess. And instead of fear, exhilaration pulsed through her. She took in the wonderful scent of flowers, first those of bright yellow, then some of vivid blue, and the rise and fall of the grasslands at the edge of the forest. Perhaps they would ride near enough to the water that she would get a glimpse.
Happiness—all the result of a freedom she had never known. Because now, today, she could pretend she was the person she wanted to be, one who could travel unencumbered. That was the reason. Not Sir Nicholas Lovayne.
His horse inched ahead of her time after time and he kept looking over his shoulder as if to make sure she still kept her seat.
Abruptly, he rode closer, as if he had recognised her thought. They had not spoken since she had mounted, a process made easy with his help. He had a way of lifting her so gracefully that it was no longer a struggle to get on the horse.
‘Is it comfortable for you?’ he said. ‘To ride? Should we stop to rest?’
Kind of him to ask. He had not seemed so generous this morning. And even if she had to tie herself to the horse, she would not succumb. ‘You said it yourself. We have no time. Besides, isn’t a pilgrim supposed to suffer?’ She smiled, as if to assure him she did not.
She hoped he did not see her grit her teeth.
‘Come. Let us rest and eat.’
He gave quick orders to those with them and his squire Eustace scurried to set up a blanket while Agatha, the serving girl Lady Joan had lent her, unpacked a cold meal by the stream. They travelled lightly, escorted by only two knights and their squires.
But Nicholas arranged everything, a task much simpler, she was certain, than managing food and drink for hundreds of men, as he had in France. Still, with him, she was not a lady-in-waiting with an obligation to fetch or carry.
He came to the near side of her horse, ready to lift her down and she braced herself against desire.
His arms were strong and tight. Then her body pressed to his, close, close as lovers might be. But there was nothing beyond duty in his care of her. She knew that. He was the Prince’s man, she attached to Lady Joan. But somehow, away from the court, no longer surrounded,